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The things he’d done to Alicia—who did indeed have touches of masochism in her—would horrify his lovers. He’d tortured her, slowly, methodically, employing every trick up his sleeve to ensure she would suffer greatly, and without the use of tools.
His knuckles hurt. At least he’d been able to stop at a petrol station bathroom and scrub away the flecks and spatters of blood before anyone saw them.
In the end, all he had to show for his efforts was that name.
Varangian.
In the end, he’d placed a broken bit of glass to her face, the sharp tip puncturing the skin just next to her left eye. He had threatened to blind her, to cut her eyes out of her head.
Of course, when he considered all the bruises and cuts he’d left on her body before that taunt, he had held out very little hope that threat would work.
Surprisingly, it had.
Alicia had closed her eyes and whispered the name.
Varangian.
Then, she’d said she had failed him by exposing them, that she had orders to kill Sylvia.
That moment of weakness was brief, one that Alicia shook herself free of. After that, she refused to speak. Her lips pursed shut no matter what he threatened to do to her.
He’d broken three more fingers, but she’d remained silent.
He had tortured enough people in the past to know when it was time to stop. The dead look in Alicia’s eyes assured him the session was done. Normally that was when he’d take a break, let her rest, then start up again once her body wouldn’t have the insulating protection of shock and adrenaline.
And while he despised Eric for plotting to include Sylvia in Alicia’s future interrogations, the security officer in him could appreciate that his lovely, sweet poet was most likely their best chance at extracting more information.
“I should explain something first,” Lancelot said, looking at Sylvia. “In the Masters’ Admiralty, each territory assigns some members special roles, financial advisors, knights,” he paused before adding, “security officers.”
Sylvia nodded. “Okay.” She was patiently waiting for him to get to the point.
“And, obviously,” Hugo said, hopping in on what he thought was a simple explanation, “Lancelot is a knight. Once they join, they drop their surname and, in England, they take Knight as their last name, as well as choosing one of the names of a Knight of the Round Table. England’s new admiral was previously a knight named Tristan. Now, however, he is Arthur.”
Sylvia smiled, and Lancelot could just imagine how much her poet’s heart loved his territory’s contemporary nod to the ancient legend.
“The security officers are different from the knights,” Lancelot said, knowing his confession would mean less to her until she understood exactly what it was he did for a living.
Again, Hugo explained. “While knights see that the law is obeyed and justice served, the security officers handle the…less savory aspects of peacekeeping. I think in America, the difference would be similar to that of the justice system and the CIA.”
“Security officers employ methods most people would frown upon,” Lancelot added.
“Like what?” she asked.
Lancelot swallowed heavily. “Torture. Murder. Blackmail. You have to understand…Knights deal with mostly white-collar crimes, ones that aren’t violent in nature. Meanwhile, security officers chase down the most vicious criminals—murderers, rapists…terrorists.”
Sylvia tilted her head, assessing him carefully. She was a bright woman, astute, clever. “Why are you telling me this, Lancelot?”
It was clear from her voice, from the way she said his name, she already suspected why.
As did Hugo. “Merde,” he whispered.
“My name isn’t Lancelot. It’s Charlie Allerton, and I’m a security officer for the territory of England.”
Hugo stood up, turning to him angrily. “You lied! Right from the beginning.”
“The fleet admiral thought it best if—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Eric thought! You’ve had plenty of opportunities to come clean since then. Why would you keep that from us?” Hugo asked.
